in the pocket (new edit)

the recurring blurring dream of three odd years

was you last night.

the scene

is on a speeding train out of a tunnel into daylight.

my eyes lift again

this time to find

it is you.

you are all hair and pearly whites.

you are a beautiful mean-ass bronco

licking sugar from my hand.

and (usually) in my dream

at the destined stop,

the outlaw rises -

and (typically) tucking away his pistol -

he winks my smile away

and exits the train.

he meets the platform whistling.

i press my hand against a stack of unread letters in the pocket

of a shirt i thought he wore.

the window fogs

and i wake.

last night

I saw that it was you.

you drew a solid deep breath and smiled.

your hands entwined with mine.

you missed your stop in all that gazing.

i knew you were looking for someone else.

i reached into the pocket
of a shirt I thought you wore

and gave you my letters.

you tossed our bags out the racing train.

like convicts jumping cars

we stood on the edge

facing the past flying behind us.

our possessions,

only tiny brightly colored memories-

flickering embers swirling in the wind.

the recurring blurring dream of three odd years has changed.

i wake with this:

your face is a map lacking direction,

your gaze - a "no trespassing" sign,

your hands are delicate and strong,

your heart is a steady drum,

and
your neck and hair against my lips

(the scent of sweat and tobacco)

are as soft as any woman.
if we meet again

if the ground isn't racing beneath us

i know you'll recognize me.